


you are terrible (but you're still my best friend)

by orphan_account



Category: The Yogscast
Genre: Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, Chronic Pain, Domestic Fluff, M/M, Other, Strife has chronic pain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-08
Updated: 2014-08-08
Packaged: 2018-02-12 06:55:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2099826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Strife is an office worker with stress levels way too high for someone his age, and his roommate Parvis is in a garage band that makes music about anime. Somehow, they've managed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you are terrible (but you're still my best friend)

**Author's Note:**

> things to note: strife has chronic joint pain, especially in his knees, and parvis does everything he can to help!
> 
> written for a domestic roommate au! not so much sitcom-y, but it's definitely 'something strife and parvis would do' level domestic roommate au.
> 
> sorry for the amount of times parvis is said in this fic lol

It was vicious, really, the way Strife’s head was throbbing. It was aching, pounding, and he had only just filed his papers away. He’d stationed himself at the kitchen’s island; beside his left hand, which had been slicing blue ink grooves into the paper, the warning tag wrapped around the cord of the blender snagged on a current and whipped silently, signaling the air conditioning unit’s whirr to life. Chill settled over his body, though it wasn't uncomfortable. Earlier, when he’d put away the meager spread of dishes  in the washer away, he’d wrenched every kitchen window open in a feeble attempt at escaping the hellish steam that the dishwasher had let escape. He scratched his head with his right hand, mostly to give it something to do, and looked over at the clock. He hadn't expected three hours to pass, not in the slightest, and as he peered from the now closed window at the setting sun, he realized just how much his eyes were starting to hurt. He could see a mixture of blue ink and black lines every time he closed his eyes, so he took that as his cue to finish up for the day and relax. He turned on the barstool and stood; as he rose, his bones stiffly creaked to life, creating a cacophony of cracks to fill the silence between his stretch and his sigh of relief.

At the present time, though, he knew that he hadn’t much more time for himself. He’d have to dig deep inside himself for the resolve to face the beast that would soon reside in his apartment, or rather, their apartment. As he stepped to the coffeemaker and poured himself a mug of the now-cold coffee, he resigned to a sigh and a shake of the head. Even now, even after countless contretemps and degradation and the constant hum of another living being taking up space that Strife could have—and should have, in hindsight—been able to call his own, he didn’t really feel all too much resentment toward the other inhabitant of his sad little residence. Not really. Mostly, especially when Parvis leaned too close or talked too loud, Strife felt a concoction of emotions comprised of one part resigned annoyance and two parts curiosity. He had never known someone so blunt or, to put it frankly, so jagged as Parvis. He was a lean, sharpened blade of a man who had developed a terrible habit of skyscraping over Strife at every chance he could. Maybe, Strife thought, he felt powerful staring down at him with the grin he wore, always a mix of urgent sincerity and impish delight. It made Strife feel quite vulnerable at his position but, if he was honest (as he often was on the subject of his roommate), he never felt malice in Parvis’ gaze.

In any case, he brought himself out of contemplation on the grounds that the very same knife he had been thinking of had just bombarded through the door. Strife brought the cup of coffee to his lips quite urgently, realizing almost too late that the searing throb that he had pushed backburner would rear its head even more with another presence near.

 “Strife!” came a voice from behind him, and suddenly Parvis was leaning over the sink to get a good look at him. “I didn't know you were home still!”

Strife let his expression relax. “I,” Strife began, scrambling for an answer. “I had—I had a day off.”

“Oh!” A moment later, more quietly, “oh.”

Even if Strife wasn't able to analyze his expression from here, he knew Parvis felt pretty bad about barging in so loudly and proudly. It was rare that Strife got a day off, and even more rarely did he get a chance to enjoy it. He usually caught up on his own slack all day, chiding himself and working until he knew he would wreck his sleep schedule if he continued. In addition, Parvis had seen Strife at his worst, struggling to even stand in the mornings but still poring over paperwork until the early hours, having to limp downstairs due to broken elevator and smoke nearly a pack of cigarettes (which he never did) to keep from screaming or crying or quitting his job or something worse than the three of those combined. Parvis had even helped him, once, underload his overload when he had come home to find Strife curled up in the curve of the couch that Parvis had bought for them, face buried in his hands. Strife had dictated the necessary tasks while Parvis wrote, and when they had lessened the workload, Strife and Parvis had celebrated on that same couch, blankets piled around the pair now too exhausted to even move.

Parvis’ hand touched the tip of Strife’s elbow, and he barely registered the contact before there was a hand clapping his back and a sound of frustration irking in his mind. “Good,” Parvis said, as though he hadn't even acknowledged the moment of speechless sympathy he had just created. “That means we can hang out together and you can’t even get away!”

Strife sighed, shaking his head as he allowed a meek smile slide up his cheeks. “That sounds, hmm, great. Ohhh, my, let’s see if I have anything else I can work on.” He made his way to the barstool again, relieved to sit down. He didn't even realize how much his left knee hurt until he got off it, and he knew Parvis could tell he was only teasing. Strife stacked his papers and slid them into their folder with a sigh. “What did you have in mind?”

Parvis shrugged, looking over at Strife and leaning on the counter with a delighted smile. “Oh,” he said, eyes breaking contact to go sailing across the room in a loop. “Nothing really in particular.”

“You are the worst liar I've ever met.” Strife snorted, and Parvis joined in with his own special brand of laughter that was too contagious and then, before the moment even ended, Parvis had him ushered out the door, coat in one hand and cane in the other, and then he’d been dragged into a pub.

He was confused, first, then a little miffed, because Parvis knew he doesn’t really like to drink. Rather than pulling him to the bar, Parvis dragged a sputtering, complaining Strife to what he assumed one would call ‘backstage’. Despite his aching knee, the jittery excitement of whatever surprise Parvis had concocted kept Strife on his roommate’s heels, leaning around him to peer from behind a thin shoulder when they paused in the commotion of people in the thin hallway backstage. At last they broke from the cramped space into a wide room crammed with equipment like any trashy garage band would have used. This was, however, no average trashy garage band. Though Parvis had no garage and he was not a trashy musician, he still had a trashy garage band whose music had inspired (from one of the members, no doubt) the classification of ‘gaijin rock’.

(To Strife, who had found himself in Parvis’ black hole of a room listening to a CD Parvis had brought home to brag about on multiple occasions, the music wasn't terrible, but it wasn't something he was going to shove on his music player either.)

“Ta-da!” Parvis exclaimed, tossing up his arms to gesture at the group of three sitting on a mismatched trio of chairs. “Remember—I told you I was going to take you out to meet them!”

He introduced the three: Sparkles had a charming ginger beard, Kogie seldom wore his shirt, and Leo was noticeably more resigned than the others. Parvis grinned the whole time in the sly way that was so contagious and, at the same time, not, because only Strife seemed to be reacting to it. Was it—was Strife thinking correctly? He had to be, he thought to himself. Parvis had a secret smile for him, _for Strife_ , a distinct turning of his lips and flash of teeth that meant nothing to his own bandmates but held an entire conversation between himself and Strife.

“They’re—well, they’re a nice lot,” Strife said after conversations between the three had died down. The band had gone off somewhere, presumably to set up on stage, while Parvis hung back with Strife. The two of them looked an awkward pair, Parvis’ hands stuffed into his pockets while Strife folded his hands behind his back. They occasionally met eyes, at which point they would smile briefly before looking away. “Very noisy.”

Parvis snorted, nodding at him in the slow, lazy Parvis-patented way. “That’s for sure. But we’re all noisy, even me. You know that much.”

“Oh, Parvis, that I do know too well,” Strife agreed, but before the conversation could continue, Kogie peeks his head in and gives Parvis a wave that Strife interprets as ‘showtime’. Strife apparently hit the mark, judging by the way his roommate jumped into action and nearly sprinted right out the door. He stopped short, however, pausing at the doorway and staring at Strife with an expression that is, surprisingly, ambiguous.

“There’s a seat up front for you.” A pause, almost a hesitation. “At the bar, I mean. There’s a place at the bar.” Strife took a breath, ready to object about how he doesn't drink, but Parvis cut him off before he could even muster the words. “So you can rest, silly Strife,” he said, face spreading into the same sloppy smile he’d given before, when Strife was meeting his friends. “Order something to eat you can complain about later.” And then, without so much as a goodbye, he slipped from the doorframe and out into the hallway that held not a single person the moment Strife traversed it himself. The cane in his hand filled him with relief, and by the time he arrived at the bar, he’d nearly collapsed onto the stool.

Area 11, the band, took the stage, and the bar warmly welcomed them with applause and a few drunken hoots and hollers. Strife didn’t pay the actual music much attention, just clapped along and shouted with the crowd when instructed. The onion rings he ordered were rubbery in some places, nearly undercooked in others, but he ate them anyway. As the band’s concert closed, Strife found himself almost disappointed, because he’d been having a pretty good time watching the band having fun on stage.

Strife dozed on the ride home, slumped against Parvis’ bony frame as his eyelids danced with the streetlights they passed while he closed his eyes. When the pair arrived at their apartment building, Strife instinctively headed toward the flights upon flights of stairs, and he only stopped and found his way to the elevator in his haze when Parvis took him by the shoulders and led him there.

As soon as the door unlocked, Strife stumbled past an amused-looking Parvis and planted himself on the couch. He heard, through his fogged senses, the shower curtain draw closed and the water turn on, but not much else, and he rose only when fat droplets of water from Parvis’ dripping head slipped against his nose.

“Wha—?” Strife mumbled, wiping his face with the back of his hand.

“Sorry,” Parvis said, and then, “I couldn’t help it! You look so much more peaceful when you’re asleep, Strife, not at all like the fussy gourmet pencil-pusher I know.”

Strife opened one eye then, met with an upside down face and upper body looming over him and, unfortunately, dripping water all over his cheeks. “I hate you sometimes, you know that?”

“Aw, shush.” Parvis laughed and hopped over the side of the couch, snuggling in beside Strife (too tired to care about water soaking his own hair or about how he should probably harp on his friend about personal space) and flipping their television on. “I know you only say it ‘cause you can’t say you love me.”

It was Strife’s turn to laugh at that, though it’s laced more with a tired nonchalance than with malice. “Yeah, yeah, whatever helps you sleep at night, Parvy.”


End file.
